


The Collected Murphy Ficlets

by osprey_archer



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-06 23:10:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 6,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16842337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osprey_archer/pseuds/osprey_archer
Summary: Isaac Murphy's adventures as a SHIELDra agent.





	1. Christmas Potluck

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lauralot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/gifts).



> Over the years I've written a bunch of Murphy-centric ficlets for lauralot, and I figured with Tumblr's recent shenanigans I'd better collect them somewhere less liable to implode. So here they are!

“Brock! Over here!”

It’s the annual SHIELD Christmas potluck. Rumlow’s pretty sure he’s tried everything worth trying, but Mercer and Rollins are hovering like vultures over a plate on the dessert table, so he saunters over. “What is it?”

“Amazing,” Rollins says fervently. “Here. Try it.”

He’s practically thrusting a brownie in Rumlow’s face. Rumlow’s not usually big on sweets, but he’s had a lot of eggnog and his resistance is low, so he takes it.

It practically melts on his tongue. It’s rich and fudgy and chocolatey and absolutely wonderful and Rumlow helps himself to two more. The plate is almost empty.

“Who _made_ these?” he demands.

“There’s gotta be a card around here somewhere. Allergy information and shit,” Rollins says, faintly contemptuous. “Here…”

He reaches for it, but Mercer snags the card first. She flips it over – and her smile disappears. “ _Murphy,_ ” she spits out, unbelieving.

They all stare, aghast, at Murphy’s handwritten label. They have just eaten nearly a plate full of gluten-free, vegan brownies.

Mercer slaps the card face-down on the table. “We’re never speaking of this again,” she says, and they all scatter in different directions, as if to throw possible spies off the scent. 

Rumlow isn’t halfway across the cafeteria before he spots Murphy, standing in a corner chatting with a couple of his coworkers from code-breaking.

He almost turns on his heel, like he normally would. But instead he hesitates. Maybe the eggnog has softened him. Or maybe Murphy’s nondenominational holiday music (including Hanukkah songs) has finally broken his spirit.

Maybe his heart just grew three sizes that day. In any case, he continues on his path toward Murphy.

Murphy doesn’t see him at first. He and his coworkers all seem absorbed in their conversation. They all burst into laughter, and Rumlow realizes, disbelieving, that it’s because Murphy has made a joke. There are people in this world who think Murphy is funny.

Murphy catches sight of him. His face lights up, which is horrifying. He’s always wanted to introduce Rumlow to his friends from over in codebreaking. 

“Hey, Murph,” Rumlow says, and tries not to see the way that Murphy expands with joy at this nickname. “We found your brownies. They were great.”

Murphy bursts into a profusion of information about the recipe. His buddies eye Rumlow suspiciously. _The natives are hostile_ , Rumlow thinks, and feels that he has wandered into some strange _Twilight Zone_ world where Murphy has friends and cooks well.

Not that Rumlow has ever tried any of Murphy’s other food. Jesus fuck. What if it’s _all_ good?

“We pretty much cleaned the plate,” Rumlow says, when Murphy finally pauses for breath.

One of the code-breakers suddenly smiles. “He brings us a plate of brownies every Tuesday,” she says, and Rumlow sees a faintly malicious edge to her grin. _See what you could have had if you had been nice to Murphy?_ , she’s saying.

“I could bring STRIKE brownies too,” Murphy cries, ever eager to please.

“Uh,” says Rumlow. He feels – well, just a little sheepish, and it almost makes him want to say no. They don’t deserve the brownies. Not after how they’ve treated Murphy.

But Murphy looks like he may actually die if Rumlow refuses. Rumlow’s inexplicable pang of guilt swiftly passes. He’ll be doing Murphy a favor, really. “Sure, Izzy,” he says. He claps Murphy on the shoulder, and Murphy smiles as if this is the best Christmas present ever. “That’d be great.”


	2. A Bowl of Soup

“Who is it?” Murphy’s voice, deep and raspy, was barely recognizable through his apartment door.

“It’s Steve,” Steve said. “I heard you had strep throat, so I brought you some soup. Um, from that restaurant you mentioned you like, the vegan one.” He had considered making soup himself, but he couldn’t remember half of Murphy’s dietary restrictions.

“Really?” Murphy said, and he sounded so amazed that Steve wondered if maybe people no longer took soup to the sick. But then Murphy was saying, “Just leave it outside the door. I don’t want you to get sick.” 

“I’m not going to get sick,” Steve promised him. “Superserum, remember? Let me come in.”

There was a long pause on the other side of the door. “All right,” Murphy said.

He sounded reluctant, but Steve thought that was a side effect of his hoarseness, because he beamed at Steve as Steve settled a Thermos of soup on the coffee table next to the couch where Murphy lay. (The restaurant website had strongly recommended bringing reusable containers for carryout orders.)

Murphy had the blanket pulled up under his chin. Four cats rested on top of him. One of them hissed at Steve, its ears flattened back against its head. 

“Is there anything else I can do to help?” Steve asked.

“No, no, this is great,” Murphy said. “This is so nice. Thank you so much.”

“I mean it,” Steve said. “I’m free all afternoon. Please let me help.”

Murphy hesitated just a moment more, then plunged ahead. His whispery hoarseness slowing his voice to barely half its usual velocity. “I got my CSA order in two days ago and I haven’t had the energy to do anything with it. I don’t want any of it to go bad.”

“Okay,” Steve said cautiously. He wasn’t quite sure what Murphy was talking about. “CSA?” 

“Community supported agriculture,” Murphy explained. “I subscribe to a local organic co-op. The box gets donated to a local homeless shelter if I’m away on a mission.”

Murphy stopped. It took Steve a few moments to realize that Murphy was done talking, and that more than anything drove home how sore Murphy’s throat must be.

“So it’s fruits and vegetables and things?” Steve said.

“Mostly root vegetables right now,” Murphy said. 

That made sense. And it shouldn’t be too hard to deal with; Steve had peeled his fair share of potatoes in his day. “How about I roast them in the oven for you?” Steve suggested. “Then they’ll be soft and cooked and you can just heat them up in the microwave to eat them.”

Murphy nodded again. 

Another cat – a little white kitten with a buzz-saw loud purr – joined Steve in the kitchen, settled on his lap as Steve peeled his way through the CSA box. (He had to look up a couple of the vegetables, as well as their suggested cooking methods, on his phone. The internet was a marvelous thing.) The kitchen grew warm and sleepy with the smell of roasting potatoes as Steve minced garlic to roast with the kohlrabi.

He made a mug of tea with honey for Murphy, but when he checked in the living room, Murphy had fallen asleep. So Steve drank the mug of tea himself, sitting on a soft chair by the window with the white cat purring on his lap, and watched the soft gray clouds scud across the sky.


	3. Blankets

When Murphy got back soaking wet from his night on watch, the asset scruffed him by his collar like a mother cat picking up a kitten and deposited him in front of the anemic radiator. That had been funny enough, but over the course of the morning the asset has grimly dumped most of the warm things in the apartment on top of Murphy.

A big bath towel. A smaller kitchen towel when the bath towel didn’t stop Murphy’s shivering. A musty blanket that the asset dug up God knows where, because the safehouse is an empty shell of a place and they’re lucky the radiators work at all. Murphy’s sleeping bag, and now Rollins’.

Rollins is attempting to hold on to his sleeping bag. “I need it,” he insists. “It’s fucking cold.”

“Share with Rumlow.”

Rollins’ cheeks flush a dull mottled red. “Fuck you,” he says.

But the asset just stands there, holding the sleeping bag, and looks at Rollins. It’s not even a glare, really. He just looks, dead-eyed, and tightens his left hand ever so slightly on the sleeping bag, and they can all hear the fabric give a faint ominous rip.

Rollins lapses back on the mildewed sofa. “Fuck you,” he mutters.

“I really don’t need it,” Murphy calls. His teeth have stopped chattering. “I really think I’m all right now, actually, I could make us all tea if – ”

The asset flings the sleeping bag on top of Murphy. “Stay,” he barks.

Murphy subsides too. The rain spits in through the broken corner on the window, cold on Rumlow’s face. The radiator groans.

“I really,” says Murphy, hunkering down under his layers of coverings. His wet clothes are starting to steam. “I think I’m warm enough now.”

The asset eyes him, expressionless. Then he takes off his coat and dumps it on top of Murphy too. 

“Now you’re warm enough,” the asset says, and he actually sounds cheerful. It’s ghastly. Rumlow has never heard him sound cheerful before and it’s more disturbing than his usual tone of homicidal pissiness.

And then the asset loses interest in Murphy completely. “I want pizza,” he tells Rumlow.  


“We’re in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, asshole,” Rumlow shoots back.

“So? I want pizza.” 

“You don’t want to drag him back out in the rain, do you?” Rumlow asks, jerking a thumb at Murphy.

The asset glances at Murphy as if he’d forgotten him. “Oh,” he says. “He’s fine now. In fact,” he says, “he wants pizza too.”

“Well,” says Murphy, squirming. “The cheese probably isn’t ethically – ”

“He,” says the asset, clamping his hand on the back of Murphy’s neck, and for once in his life Murphy shuts up, “wants pizza too.”


	4. Imprisonment

“Do you know how much it costs to keep you imprisoned? We could be spending that money saving whales, but no, we spend it on your worthless ass, and you haven’t even given us any actionable intelligence in – ”

Daphne slammed the off switch on the recording. Shapiro swung away around in his office chair. “I can’t believe that actually made him cry,” he said. “Are we sure Murphy was really a Hydra agent?”

“Shut up, Shapiro,” Daphne said.

“And he really hasn’t given us actionable intelligence in months,” Shapiro added. “You should drop him from your roster.”

Daphne shrugged. “It’s just an hour a week, Shapiro.” The only hour in the week that Murphy got to talk to anyone.

“A wasted hour every week. He’s been in here two years already; we’ve already milked him dry.”

That was true of every single Hydra prisoner they had down in the cells. It was just that the rest of them were smart enough to make shit up once they ran out of actual intelligence. 

Daphne cast herself down in her own office chair and snagged an apple from the fruit bowl. “Maybe he’ll give me something good next week,” she said. 

“He’d better.”

The apple was Red Delicious, and almost tasteless. Daphne chucked it into the trash.


	5. Sanctuary

“Oh, you’re here about Diego!” Mrs. Tallis’s wrinkled face lit with a smile as she looked at the photo of Murphy that Steve had handed her. “I’m so glad. He’s such a sweet guy, I’ve always hoped someone would turn up looking for him.”

“How long has he been working at the sanctuary?” Steve asked.

“Oh, let’s see.” She set the photo aside and flipped through her desk calendar. “Maybe six months now? Since he got out of the hospital. The poor lamb hit his head in a bicycle accident, that’s how he lost his memory. He still rides a bike to work every day. So brave.”

“That sounds like him,” Steve agreed. His throat felt tight. There was something horrible about SHIELD coming up with that back story to explain Murphy’s memory loss: taking his personality into account even as they mind-wiped him. “Do you have his phone number? I’d really liked to contact him.”

“I can do better than that,” Mrs. Tallis said. She hefted herself up from her seat behind the card table. She walked with an odd hunch. “He’s here right now. He stays on after his shift as night watchman to make breakfast for the parrots. Would you like to walk around back to meet him?”

“Yes,” Steve said. He followed her out of the trailer. As soon as they left, he could hear the parrots chattering again, and it grew louder as they followed a gravel path through a small patch of woods until they reached the parrot enclosures: a series of barn-sized chain-link enclosures, large enough that they enclosed small trees. Flocks of brightly colored parrots clustered on the branches.

It was the perfect place for Murphy. In between lectures about abusive apiculture and the plight of the orcas at Sea World, he used to rant about the evils of the parrot pet trade: social parrots forced to live all alone, their wings clipped, their cages too small, their owners annoyed by their constant chatter because what they wanted – Murphy was usually tearing up by the time he got to this place in his rant – what they really wanted was an exotic accessory for their homes, not a real parrot with feelings and hopes and dreams –

That was usually when Rumlow cut in. “Can it, Izzy.” Which usually kept Murphy quiet for, oh, about five minutes.

Mrs. Tallis knocked on the doorframe of a shed out by the parrot enclosures, even though the door was ajar. “Diego, sweetheart, there’s someone here to see you,” she said, pushing the door open. “He’s a bit shy,” she murmured.

Steve almost cringed. It was the kind of thing one might say about a dog or a small child, not an adult. 

But he could see why she said it, because otherwise it would have been easy to mistake Murphy for unfriendly, even hostile. He stayed on his side of the stainless steel table, glancing at them warily as he chopped up bananas. The knife flashed in the thin sunlight coming in through the skylight. The shed had no other lights.

Steve had read that prolonged solitary confinement often made it difficult for its victims to begin interacting with people again even when they had the chance. “Hi,” Steve said, hoping to give Murphy an opening. “Chopping up breakfast for the parrots?”

Murphy’s chopping slowed. He peered at Steve through the dimness of the shed. “I know you,” he said uncertainly.

“Yeah,” said Steve. He managed a smile. “We used to be friends. You loved parrots even then.”


	6. Lunch

It was a long drive from the parrot sanctuary back to the Home, so Steve stopped for lunch at a Wendy’s on the way. Murphy didn’t get out of the car till Steve came around and opened the passenger door. “C’mon,” Steve said. “I’ll get you something.”

“Really?” Murphy sounded amazed.

“Sure. Anything you want.”

He wondered what SHIELD had fed Murphy while he was in prison. Had they even bothered to get him vegetarian food? Or had they just given him whatever all the other prisoners ate and figured that if he didn’t eat it, hunger would just make him more cooperative?

They didn’t get in line right away. Murphy seemed overwhelmed by the menu, glancing from Steve’s face to the bright pictures of crispy lettuce leaves and dew-bedecked tomatoes. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “What should I get?”

Steve almost prompted him. Murphy always used to get the baked potato and the garden salad. “Anything you want,” Steve said instead.

Murphy considered the menu. He bit his lip and glanced at Steve. “Maybe the asiago chicken club?” Murphy said.

Steve’s jaw must have dropped. Murphy backtracked hastily. “Sorry, sorry. That’s way too expensive. Sorry.”

“No – ”

“What about the junior bacon cheeseburger? It’s less than two dollars.”

“No, Isaac, you can get whatever you want – ” Steve stopped, flummoxed. Murphy thought his name was Diego now.

But Murphy didn’t even seem to notice that Steve had called him by the wrong name. “I’m not really hungry,” Murphy said. He peered anxiously up in Steve’s face. “I don’t need anything. Maybe just one or two of your fries.”

“No!” said Steve. Murphy looked terrified. “I mean, you can have your own fries,” Steve said hastily. “Get whatever you want. I really mean it. It’s not too expensive. I was just surprised. You just used to get something else, that’s all.”

“I’ll get that, then,” Murphy said. “I’ll get whatever you want me to get.”

“Then get the asiago chicken club,” Steve said gently. “And some fries. Do you want a soda?”

Murphy nodded.

Steve had intended for them to get a table, but instead he decided they should continue driving as they ate. At least that way, he wouldn’t have to watch as Murphy ate the grilled chicken.


	7. At the Home

“Oh, hell no,” Rumlow muttered. He stopped stock still on the grass, and Lucy trotted back to him, leaning against his knees.

He wasn’t technically supposed to be on this part of the grounds, but Lucy was tired of taking the same old walk every day, and he’d figured to hell with their rules anyway.

But this was a better punishment than anyone in the Home could have dreamed up. Because there, walking up the avenue with Rogers, was Murphy.

No. Not walking. Skipping might be a better description of his gait. Rumlow strongly suspected that Murphy would be holding Rogers’ hand if Rogers would let him.

Was Rumlow that pathetic when Rogers first found him? All, _Let me tell you about my awesome sister._ His awesome sister who was secretly an agent who probably did hilarious impressions of his stupid telephone calls when he called her up after a nightmare. Crying all over the phone.

Rumlow had a nurse call button in his room now, but he never used it. Sometimes if the nightmares got really bad he’d get up and sit in the lounge. Half the time Sanderson was sitting there in his wheelchair reading one of his shitty mystery books, and that was enough to calm Rumlow down.

Lucy nudged her nose against his knee. Rumlow bent down painfully and looped his arms around her neck, and she licked his face. “Hey girl,” he said, pressing his face in her fur. Hr rubbed her behind the ears. “Let’s say we get out of here before PETA over there sees us, huh?”

But when Rumlow lifted his face from Lucy’s ruff, Murphy was already standing there, maybe five feet away from him, his hands clasped behind his back. He didn’t say anything, just stood there and stared.

“What?” Rumlow snapped, and he stood up slowly. It always took him a long time to stand, but he’d found that if he stood up extra slowly, it looked like he was doing it on purpose, and that made it unnerving.

Murphy looked unnerved, all right. He stood there, still and unspeaking, until Lucy trotted up to him, tail wagging. Murphy fell to his knees in the dead winter grass and put his arms around her.

“Lucy!” Rumlow said sharply, and she came to heel, tail low and wagging slowly. “Good dog. Good girl,” he said.

Murphy didn’t move, just stayed there in the cold grass with his hands against his knees. “Sorry,” Murphy said. Rogers moved to put a hand on his shoulder, and Murphy looked up at him. “Is he one of my old friends?” 

“Is that what you’ve been telling him?” Rumlow narrowed his eyes at Rogers. “Guess that got him to hop right in the car. No ICERs for him.”

Murphy’s face crumpled with uncertainty. Rogers squeezed his shoulder. “C’mon, Mur – Diego,” he said. “Why don’t we go inside and look at your new room? This one won’t have cockroaches, I promise.”

“I don’t mind the cockroaches,” Murphy said. He sounded relieved. He hauled himself to his feet. “I named one of them Delilah. Only I could never tell which one she was…”

They went away into the Home. 

Murphy must’ve been talking about his post-mind-wipe room, wherever that was. SHIELD never would have let vermin into their prisons. Too much like entertainment for the prisoners.

Lucy pressed close against Rumlow’s legs. Rumlow stroked her ears. “Sorry, girl,” he said. “You just wanted to make a new friend, didn’t you? I guess I get kind of boring after a while.”

Lucy licked his hand. Rumlow turned to walk back to the yard he was supposed to stay in.

“He can probably throw a Frisbee farther than I can,” Rumlow said.

They trudged across the short stubby grass. Rogers hadn’t said anything about it, but Rumlow wouldn’t put it past him to send out an orderly to get Rumlow back into place. His scars hurt with the cold.

“But you’ve always gotta like me best,” he told Lucy. She danced along beside him, as if she didn’t mind at all that he walked so slow. “Okay? You can make new friends, but you’ve gotta like me best.”


	8. A Happy Sack of Potatoes

“Why on earth,” said Bucky, “would I ruffle Murphy’s hair?” 

“Because it might make him less dependent on Rumlow for approval,” Steve said. “And then maybe he’d stop sneaking alcohol to Rumlow.” 

“Or we could let Murphy keep bringing Rumlow alcohol and hope he drinks himself to death.” 

“Bucky!” Steve yelled. 

Bucky slouched lower in the passenger seat. “You ruffle Murphy’s hair, then,” he said. 

“He likes you better.” 

Bucky scowled out the car window. “He’s always been a fucking idiot.” 

*** 

Bucky scowled all the way to the Home, but when they met Murphy in the common room, he switched on his smile like a light. “Murphy!” he said. 

Murphy’s smile flickered on too, small and hopeful, although he didn’t reply out loud or even quite look at them. 

“Good to see you,” Bucky said. He ruffled Murphy’s hair with one hand. Murphy ducked his head and scraped a foot over the floor and smiled at his feet. 

Bucky turned a gloating smile on Steve, as if he were brazenly defying Steve rather than doing exactly what he’d asked. Steve wanted to kick him. 

“Let’s go see your garden,” Bucky said, and slung Murphy over his shoulder. Steve lurched in preparation to protest, but Bucky was already turning away, and Steve caught a glimpse of Murphy’s face. He looked like a happy sack of potatoes. 

Bucky hitched Murphy more securely on his shoulder. “Anything in the garden we can snack on?” he asked. 

Murphy nodded. Maybe he didn’t realize Bucky couldn’t see him. 

“Probably sugar snap peas,” Steve supplied. There were pretty much always sugar snap peas. Murphy nodded more rapidly. Steve hadn’t seen Murphy look that blissful… ever, really. The thought made Steve strangely sad. He had always thought of Murphy as a happy person, but maybe it had only ever been a mask. Probably someone told Murphy people would like him more if he smiled, and Murphy had been smiling determinedly ever since. 

“I guess that’s better than nothing,” Bucky said. He swung Murphy back on his feet, and gave him a little push toward the door. “Lead on, maestro.”


	9. Sock Puppets

“I made a cat puppet,” Murphy announces, walking into the therapy room with his right arm encased in a black sock puppet.

“Wow!” says Lisa, and this time it’s easy to sound properly impressed. This one is not only instantly recognizable as a cat, but with its sly green construction paper eyes and bristly pipe-cleaner whiskers, it’s got some personality as well. “Have you picked a name yet?”

Murphy pets the sock cat’s head. He bends over it to adjust a whisker and shakes his head, and Lisa wonders, as she often does, if that head tilt is a genuine sign of bashfulness, or if Murphy is just that obsessed with his puppets.

“She won’t tell me,” Murphy says.

“She won’t tell you her name?” Lisa asks.

Murphy nods. He looks miserable.

Lisa represses her excitement. Ever since she brought in the first sock puppet a month ago, she’s been hoping that they’ll be able to use the puppets in therapy. Maybe projecting his experiences in SHIELD custody onto a puppet will make it easier for Murphy to talk about them. Or at least puppet roleplay might help Murphy understand that Rumlow doesn’t always want to talk about non-toxic aphid removal methods for hours on end.

But until now Murphy hasn’t shown much interest in doing anything but making more sock puppets.

“Why do you think the cat won’t tell you her name?” Lisa asks.

Murphy’s face crunches up. He spirals one of the cat’s pipe-cleaner whiskers around a finger. “She doesn’t like me.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because she won’t talk to me.”

Lisa considers this. “Is that the only reason you can think why she might not want to talk to you?”

Murphy nods.

“So when you don’t want to talk to me,” Lisa says, “does that mean you don’t like me?”

“No!” Murphy cries. His hand jerks, nearly pulling the pipe cleaner free of the sock-cat’s cheek. He freezes, and then very gently moves to put the pipe cleaner back in place.

“I’m glad,” Lisa says. “I like you, and I’m glad you like me. And I think there are lots of other reasons why your new cat friend might not want to talk. Sometimes I don’t want to talk if I’m tired, and she might be tired after coming to a new place. And when I go somewhere new, sometimes I feel shy, and that makes it hard to talk to people. Do you think that might be why she’s not talking yet?”

Murphy spends so long smoothing the pipe cleaner that Lisa is beginning to think that this will be a dead end too. But then he says, “Maybe she’s scared.”

Lisa nods. “That’s a good guess, too,” she says. “Going to a new place is scary, even if the people are nice.”

Murphy is staring fixedly down at the cat’s googly eyes. “Maybe,” he says, “she’s afraid she’ll say the wrong thing.”

“Like what?” Lisa asks.

Murphy shrugs. “She doesn’t know. If she knew, then she wouldn’t say it.”

Lisa nods. “What would happen if she says the wrong thing?”

There’s another long silence. Lisa has to bite her inner lip to keep from filling it. During their supervisory sessions, Dr. Charles is always reminding her to let silence have its room. 

And at last, at last Murphy says, “The other puppets won’t talk to her any more.”

“There’s no chance they might forgive her?”

Murphy shakes his head. “They’ll say she’s boring.”

Lisa feels an abrupt swell of sadness in her chest. She suspects that Murphy has heard this a number of times in his life.

“And useless,” Murphy goes on. “Because she doesn’t know anything at all. And she’s not worth talking to any more, and they’ll never come and talk to her again, and they’ll leave her all alone in the dark forever and she’ll deserve it for joining Hydra, and none of the other puppets will care, because they never liked her anyway.” He stops, sucking in a deep breath. He lets it out slowly.

“That sounds terrifying,” Lisa says quietly. “No wonder she doesn’t want to talk.”

Murphy nods. His shaggy hair falls in his face.

“Well,” says Lisa. “She doesn’t have to talk if she doesn’t want to. Why don’t we just focus on helping her feel safe right now?”

“Like how?” Murphy asks.

Lisa thinks for a moment. Then she gets out the mouse puppet she brought in when she first thought of the sock puppet idea, an old gray ankle sock with googly eyes and a permanent marker nose. One of the felt ears has fallen off. “Oh dear,” Lisa says, chagrined. “She needs a little fixing up, doesn’t she?”

“I can do that,” Murphy says shyly, and Lisa glances at him, surprised. That wasn’t where she had planned to go with this.

But she can tell it’s an even better direction. “Would you do that?” she says. She takes the sock puppet off her hand carefully and hands it over to him. “Maybe if the cat and the mouse get to know each other better, they’ll become friends.”

“And then,” Murphy says, petting the mouse puppet gently, “maybe the mouse will tell us her name, too.”


	10. Cats

It’s Murphy’s fault, of course. He started reading some webcomic about cats, which did a special comic about the difficulty of finding homes for special needs cats, and the next thing you know, he’s come up with a plan for therapy cats for the Home. Blind cats, deaf cats, cats missing legs or tails. “Cats with special needs helping humans with special needs,” he says to Steve, eyes glittering. He talks of nothing else for weeks. 

And that’s how Steve and Bucky find themselves visiting a string of animal shelters one frosty morning. Murphy has already arranged for the adoptions over email; all they need to do is pick the cats up.

The only visible staff at the first shelter is a girl named Samantha. “Thank you so much for helping these cats!” she cries. “It’s so hard to get the special needs cats adopted, but they can be soooo sweet, you’ll be so happy you gave them this second chance.”

Then she disappears to collect – Steve checks the list Murphy gave him – Biscuit and Boots. The list is five pages long. There aren’t very many cats on it, but Murphy has written at least a paragraph about each one.

Bucky unzips his coat. He unwraps his scarf and huffs out a sigh. “I bet the patients just told Murphy they’d take a cat to get him to shut up,” he says disdainfully. “No one’s going to want a defective cat.”

Samantha returns at just that moment, a basket of cats in her hands, her look of delight turning into a look of horror. Steve tries to give her a look telegraphing _He’s an amputee with weird self-image issues_ , but this is much too complicated to get across with just his eyes, so he settles for smiling at her instead. “Biscuit and Boots, right?” Steve says, looking at the basket. Murphy only put two cats on the list.

But there’s definitely a third cat in the basket, a little black cat that tries to make a run for it. Samantha catches it and holds it to her chest. It claws at her. “Well I know we didn’t _talk_ about this,” she said. “But I was really hoping maybe you’d take Shadow, she’s – ” Samantha gasps as Shadow claws her chin. “Just a little bit anxious! But she’s so sweet once she’s – ”

“Fuck no,” Bucky says.

“I don’t think we can handle a cat with behavioral issues,” Steve says apologetically. “Maybe once the program is established, we could – ”

“She’s scheduled to be killed tomorrow!” Samantha cries. “Isn’t that a special need?”

Shadow leaps out of Samantha’s arms. She skids across the linoleum floor and squeezes herself into the space beneath the sofa.

Samantha looks like she’s going to cry. “Oh, please – if you’ll just wait – I can get her to come out, it will just take a few minutes, _please_ – ”

Steve looks at Bucky. Bucky is looking at the sofa. Then he looks at Steve, and rolls his eyes, and crosses the floor to sit down a non-threatening distance away from the sofa. “Oh, fine,” he says. “If you’ll go to the other shelters, I’ll wait here.”

When Steve returns, Shadow is cowering at the back of a cat carrier. She yowls when Bucky picks it up. The carrier rocks as Shadow hurls herself against the sides.

“You think she’ll make much of a therapy cat?” Steve asks.

But Bucky isn’t paying attention to him. “Hey there,” he murmurs, speaking into the air holes. “You don’t have any reason to trust me yet, but it’ll be all right. It’ll be all right. It’s better’n being dead, anyway, all right?”

Steve watches, soft-eyed. Bucky looks up, and seems surprised to meet Steve’s gaze, and looks away. “You say something?”

“Nothing,” says Steve. “I think we’ll just have to find the right patient for her, that’s all.”


	11. Rudolph, Too

“Maybe I should have taken Tony up on his offer to hire one of those Santas with a real beard,” Steve says. 

He is wearing a red velour Santa suit and a bushy white fake beard and the kind of devastated expression that has always made Bucky want to go out and punch whoever hurt him – not that it would do any good in this case. He can hardly punch Murphy for fleeing the room when Santa-Steve presented him with a cat.

Well, he could. But Steve would probably just look sadder. 

“Do you think he thought we were making fun of him?” Steve asks. “I know he’s been talking about Santa all month, but maybe he doesn’t really believe in him after all.”

“No,” Bucky says. “He believes.” 

The only question is whether that’s a weird side effect of the mind-wiping – or Murphy has believed in Santa for his entire adult life. A scary thought. 

“I’ll go talk to him,” Bucky says, because Steve shows every sign of dithering away the whole afternoon if someone doesn’t take charge. “You stay here. Keep on the costume in case he comes out.”

Murphy has shut himself in his bedroom. Bucky knocks lightly on the door. “Murphy,” he says.

Murphy doesn’t speak, but superhearing allows Bucky to hear that he’s holding his breath, like a little kid hoping he’ll be invisible as long as he’s not breathing. 

Bucky knocks on the door again. Still no response. Bucky intensifies his voice: it’s not much louder, but deeper, more resonant. He learned the trick as an older brother and perfected it as a sergeant. “Isaac.”

“Sorry,” Murphy says. 

“Isaac,” Bucky says. He crouches down by the door. “Do you think Santa would have brought you a cat if he didn’t think you were nice enough to deserve it?”

Murphy takes so long to answer that Bucky’s legs begin to cramp. He moves from the crouch to sitting on the floor. “He knows if you’ve been bad or good,” he prompts, quoting that ever-present Christmas song. 

“Yes, but…” 

“No buts,” Bucky says sternly. “He _knows_.” 

“But I didn’t find new homes for them all before I was arrested,” Murphy says. His voice is very soft; even with super-hearing Bucky has to strain to hear. 

“And that means that you can’t give a needy cat a new home now?” Bucky says. He puts a touch of sternness in his voice. “You left your cats homeless, so now you can’t give any cats homes at all?”

There’s a pause. “And this cat will be very hard to home,” Bucky adds, pressing what he hopes is his advantage. “She has seizures.” 

“Does she?” 

“Special needs cats are so hard to find homes for,” Bucky reminds him. He nearly goes on – if you don’t take her she might never find a home, Isaac – but he restrains himself, and sits and waits by Murphy’s door. A cold draft drifts along the floor. 

The door opens. Murphy is standing in the doorway. He is still in his soft footie pajamas. The pajamas have a hood with little reindeer antlers. “If Santa thinks it’s all right…” he says.

“Santa doesn’t make mistakes,” Bucky tells him gravely. 

Murphy considers this. One of his antlers flops down over his left eye, and he pushes it back. “What’s her name?” 

“Prancer,” Bucky says firmly. “Like one of Santa’s reindeer.” 

Murphy’s mouth lifts in a small wavery smile. “Really?”

“Yes,” Bucky says. He throws caution to the wind: he knows Murphy would love to have a whole clowder of cats again, but he’s never going to allow himself to do it if he’s not pushed into it. “So you’ll have to get seven more cats to complete the set. Dasher and Dancer and Donder and Cupid and all that. You wouldn’t want Prancer to get lonely, would you?”

There’s a long pause. Bucky wonders if he’s pushed too far. But then Murphy says – “And Rudolph, too?”

“Sure,” Bucky says. He slings an arm around Murphy’s shoulders and draws him down the hall, back toward Steve-Santa and Prancer the cat. “Rudolph, too.”


	12. Happy Birthday

Either the doctors had finally realized that Murphy was harmless, or they’d gotten sick of Bucky’s incessant pestering. One way or another, they let Bucky take Murphy out for a birthday lunch.

It was the first time Murphy had been out of Tony Stark’s Home for Brainwashed Agents in over a year, and he nearly hung out the car window for the whole drive. He reminded Bucky of a pet dog, sticking his head out the window to smell all the scents in the breeze and let the wind flap in his ears.

The wind might have been the reason Murphy had tears in his eyes when they pulled up in front of the restaurant. “We’re having lunch here?” Murphy said, like Bucky might’ve brought him there just to taunt him.

“It was close to the Home,” Bucky said gruffly. “Go on. They let you pick your own tomatoes for the caprese salad. Don’t!” Murphy had lunged at Bucky as if to hug him. “Just go pick your tomatoes.”

It was farm-to-table food in the most literal sense of the word: the tables stood on a deck in the middle of a garden that supplied much of the restaurant’s produce. Goats grazed on the hills in the distance. Bees hummed among the herbs.

They had caprese salad and sweet corn soup and a basket of fresh-baked cornbread drizzled with honey. Murphy engaged the waitress in a lengthy discussion of apiculture, which Bucky endured only because it was Murphy’s birthday.

But after they’d finished a frittata (free-range eggs and wild mushrooms), the waitress brought them a honey tasting plate of three different honeys - dark brown buckwheat, golden clover, and orange blossom honey the color of champagne - accompanied by brie, stilton, cheddar, rich crusty bread and thin delicate crackers.

Murphy pressed his hands over his mouth. He gazed down at the honey tasting board, then looked up at Bucky, eyes wide above his fingers. Bucky smiled at him. “You must have charmed the waitress,” he said. “Happy birthday, Murphy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last of the Murphy ficlets! Who knew I had written so much Murphy?


End file.
